


A Wild Cat Chase

by Hedgehog-o-Brien (Roshwen)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Also yes, Chocolate shop owner is a valid career choice in fairytale land, Fairytale romance, M/M, Magical Realism, No cats were harmed during the writing of this story, Shapeshifting, Will eventually be rated M but I'll put that at the end so you can skip it if you want to, and you can fight me on that, based on a tumblr prompt, m/m romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-03-08 17:45:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18899545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roshwen/pseuds/Hedgehog-o-Brien
Summary: The challenge, as his lordship had called it (challenge, Gilbert bristled later in the privacy of his rooms, as if this was just a silly game and not something that might very well end in disaster all around), the challenge was this:His lordship had a manor, a title, a town house in London, twenty thousand pounds a year, and no wife.His lordship also had a cat.And a very odd sense of humour.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on [this Tumblr post](https://hedgehog-o-brien.tumblr.com/post/184894404430/browntiger15-siniristiriita-story-idea-the) (warning: contains spoilers, so click at your peril). I thought it was cute, so here we are!

‘This,’ Gilbert told the young baron, lord Colesly, ‘is the worst idea you’ve ever had. My lord. And I’m including that time you wanted me to make you a cup of chocolate infused with beer because, and I quote, ‘ _I want to see what it tastes like_ ’.’

‘You know, you never made me that cup,’ lord Colesly mused. Then he grinned and damnation and perdition, Gilbert could do a lot of things but he could never, ever, stay mad at that grin. Not for long, anyway. A wide, full mouth, light brown eyes, flecked with gold when the sunlight hit them just right, a spray of copper-colored freckles over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and a shock of auburn curls swept every which way, he looked like a walking creature of the forest, made of autumn leaves and firelight.

If Gilbert was honest, he had to admit he liked the business and he very much liked the allure it gave his shop that the baron himself hose to visit every Friday to have a cup of chocolate. He just could do without the heart palpitations every single damn time his lordship entered his shop, that was all.

Gilbert  himself , on the other hand, was… large. That was the first word most people used to describe him. A tall man with  broad shoulders,  dark hair cropped short, pale  grey eyes in a round, open face, he did not exactly look like the fat, cheerful chocolate seller you heard about in stories. But he was kind  to children, he was prepared to take credit (within reason)  and  he made the best damn chocolate  in the county and he knew it.

‘But this time, you’re wrong,’ his lordship went on, his eyes twinkling up at Gilbert over the rim of his chocolate cup. ‘This is a great idea. Something to shake this town awake a little, some innocent excitement for the ladies, and nobody to get hurt. Now, tell me again why this is a terrible idea?’

‘’Cause you’re gonna kill your cat, that’s why.’

‘What, kill my cat? I think you underestimate Old Rum, Gilbert.’

‘And I think you underestimate the people of this town. My lord. Especially Lady Hettie and her five daughters. All of marriageable age, the eldest even slightly _over_ marriageable age and therefore even more desperate. How’s _O_ _ld Rum_ gonna get away from the six of them day after day, d’you think?’

Lord Colesly shrugged. ‘He’ll manage.’ He swirled the cup in his hands to loosen the last dregs of chocolate and knocked it back in one go. ‘Oh, yes. Excellent, as always, Gilbert. New recipe?’

‘No, my lord,’ Gilbert sighed, taking the cup from his lordship and putting it on the tray. ‘Same as always. If I make something new, you’d be the first to hear about it.’

‘I better.’ His lordship grinned again. Gilbert shook his head, even as he felt a familiar tightening in his chest; a tightening that had started sometime ago and which he found deeply, _deeply_ irritating.

‘Will there be anything else, your lordship?’ he asked when he realized he’d let the silence drag on. He could only hope he had not been staring. That would be embarrassing.

Lord Colesly shook his head. ‘No, thank you. If you could just…’

‘Of course, my lord. I’ll send up a couple of bottles to the manor, as usual.’

‘Thank you,’ Lord Colesly said. ‘And Gilbert? There is honestly no need for you to worry about Rum. He is perfectly able to take care of himself.’

Gilberd turned around so his lordship could not see the face he made. ‘As you say, my lord.’

But after his lordship had gotten up and left the shop so Gilbert could finally make a start with rinsing the tray of empty chocolate cups, he could not help but feel that there had to be better ways of finding a bride. Even for a baron.

\---

The challenge, as his lordship had called it ( _challenge_ , Gilbert bristled later in the privacy of his rooms, as if this was just a silly game and not something that might very well end in disaster all around), the challenge was this:

His lordship had a manor, a title, a town house in London,  twenty thousand pounds a year, and no wife.

His lordship also had a cat.

And a very odd sense of humour.

‘You all know old Rum,’ his lordship’s steward declared to the attentive crowd of townspeople that had gathered in the square. He was seated on horseback and petting the large brindled cat that was sitting on the horse’s neck. ‘You have all seen him around the town. You all know how much he means to his lordship.’

The townspeople nodded and muttered. Yes, they knew old Rum. A terrible tomcat who dug up flowerbeds, chased other cats, dogs and small children alike if they got in his way and always chose the most inconvenient spot to fall asleep. Such as the middle of the road, on market day.  And  since his lordship had dictated that no one was ever to disturb his cat,  this meant that more than once, the entire market had been relocated to the riverside just out of town. Which also meant that Gilbert had had to carry his  bottles of chocolate for over half a mile instead of a couple of hundred yards to the square on more than one occasion.

Needless to say, old Rum was not all that beloved. In fact, if the muttering in the crowd was any indication, there were quite a few people who would very much like to drag that cat into an alleyway to have a very stern word with it. 

With a dramatic flourish, the steward produced a piece of black ribbon and a large key that shone gold in the midday sun. With a voice that rang like a bell across square the steward continued: ‘I will now place a collar around the neck of old Rum. On this collar is the key to his lordship’s private quarters.’

The muttering in the square stopped dead. 

‘Whoever lays hands on this key,’ the steward went on while struggling to make the ribbon, key and cat come together, ‘will receive his lordship’s favor and, if both parties find each other agreeable, his hand in marriage.’

For a long moment, deathly silence reigned across the square. Then a  cacophony of clamoring voices erupted, with some of them asking for clarifications, others wondering about the terms of the challenge (the question  _are we allowed to use force_ in particular did not bode well for old Rum) and even a couple of people who were already trying to break away and start giving chase right then and there. The crowd heaved, swaying this way and that until, finally and with more relish than the situation probably warranted, the steward let go of the cat. It jumped down from the horse and immediately disappeared into the nearest alleyway, followed by a hue and cry that could only be called biblical.

It was right around that moment that Gilbert had given up, turned around and walked back to his shop. Whatever happened, and whatever his lordship and the people of the town got up to, he had always trusted in the following certainties: that the sun would rise in the morning and set in the evening; that spring would follow winter and summer and  autumn would follow spring; and that every now and then, his lordship would do something outrageous. And, last but not least, that people would want to talk and discuss and gossip about his lordship’s latest idiocy over a cup of Gilbert’s chocolate.

\---

Gilbert was not wrong. It only took two days before the first Cat Key Council meeting was set up in his shop and he spent an entire afternoon running around refilling empty cups as maps were laid out, strategies were drawn up and responsibilities were assigned. Lady Hettie was in command, of course; after the baron, she was the highest born in the town and naturally, any kind of authority fell to her.  (Even if it had to be slightly nudged in the right direction every now and then.) This meant that her five daughters all assumed the position of lieutenant, each with their own division of strategists, scouts and straight up spies. Gilbert strongly doubted the ability of any of them to actually get anywhere, but he hummed noncommittally whenever Lady Hetty addressed him, shrugged and pretended not to have a clue when one of the daughters asked a question and, in general, kept himself well out of everybody’s way by strictly acting as a walking chocolate pot.

It was one of the most profitable afternoons of his life, as far as chocolate was concerned. It was also one of the most baffling ones.

Unfortunately, i t only took two days before the first cracks started showing in the well-oiled cat catching machine. One of the daughters of Lady Hettie decided she no longer agreed with her mother’s strategy and, after the words ‘bureaucratic battleaxe’ and ‘ungrateful nitwit’ were uttered, took her little group of assigned townspeople and started out for herself.

After  _that,_ it was only a matter of hours before more factions started to emerge.  Factions that splintered into groups, into trios, into duos until, once again, it was every man, woman and the occasional child for themselves.

It didn’t help that old Rum was incredibly fast and a good deal smarter than many of the people chasing him; he managed to avoid every trap they set for him (although he managed to snatch the bait out of them most of the time, which did not help) and he could outrun the fastest urchin and dodge every net or box that was thrown at him. And the one time  Sam, the butcher’s boy,  _did_ manage to drive him into a corner, he made such good use of his razor sharp claws that the boy ended up with his arm gouged open almost to the bone and had to be stitched back together by Dr. Jacobs before he bled out.

After that, the crowd gathered in Gilbert’s chocolate shop reached its first unanimous decision of the week: no one was to give chase to the cat alone. It still was every man and woman for themselves, of course, but there was such a thing as common sense.

Needless to say that when, finally, Lord Colesly walked in the next Friday afternoon for his weekly cup of chocolate, he was met with a thoroughly exhausted Gilbert who had absolutely no patience left for that stupid satisfied grin and those stupid gold-flecked eyes in that stupid handsome face.

‘How’s your cat doing, my lord?’ he asked, plonking down his lordship’s cup of chocolate with such force that the thick liquid almost sloshed over the edge. ‘Heard he’s been out and about. A _lot.’_

‘He’s getting his exercise,’ his lordship replied dryly. He picked up the cup, took a sip, sighed in bliss and looked at Gilbert. ‘You seem frustrated. Having no luck yourself?’

Gilbert refrained admirably from gnashing his teeth as he replied:  ‘I’m not playing, my lord.’

‘Really?’ His lordship frowned. ‘Whyever not?’

‘Because,’ Gilbert yanked a damp towel from a nearby table and started wiping it, well aware how his lordship’s eyes had narrowed, ‘because I watched young Hal, not two nights ago, chase your cat across the square, down into the main street, up the wall of Martin’s bakery and across the roof until he crashed down into Lady Hettie’s vegetable garden. According to her, the arugula is absolutely ruined.’

‘Ah. I see. You don’t want to antagonize Lady Hettie any further. Completely understandable and a wise decision, if you ask me.’

Gilbert paused wiping the already spotless table and glared. His lordship took another swig of chocolate. The shop was quiet; for some reason, all other patrons had left in the five minutes it had taken for his lordship to sit down and place his order. Weird, that.

‘That sounds like a merry chase,’ his lordship said finally with a snigger. ‘But seeing as Rum has come home just fine every night this week, and is currently fast asleep, basking in the sunlight in my library, I still don’t see why you are this upset about a harmless little challenge.’

‘What if it ceases to be harmless?’

‘Ah. Yes.’

For the first time, his lordship’s smugness faded, just a little bit. ‘Well. I’m sure… I’m sure old Rum can take care of himself.’

‘Are you? Because Young Hal is not going to give up. And neither is Lady Hettie. Or Martin the baker, for that matter. Last I heard, he’s already put three separate traps on his roof, just in case Rum comes that way again.’

‘Has he now.’

‘Yes, he has. I’m just saying, my lord.’ Gilbert sighed and reached for his lordship’s empty cup, putting it on the table where he’d collected the other cups to be washed. ‘It’ll only be a matter of time before that cat of yours is in going to be in real trouble.’

\---

Late that night, Gilbert sat upstairs in his rooms over the shop, peering over his accounts, when there was a noise from downstairs.

It wasn’t a loud noise. If it had been during the day, with the hustle and bustle of the town life around it, it probably would not have stood out, or even be heard. But it was night, and late, and Gilbert had spent the past thirty minutes adding and subtracting numbers until his head swam with them while trying his hardest not to think about idiot young lordships and their idiotic challenges. So the noise, such as it was, resounded through the stillness like a clap of thunder.

‘Ah, hell.’

Slamming his account ledger shut, Gilbert jumped up. He grabbed the oil lamp burning low next to him and the bat that stood watch next to the desk, and carefully opened the door. The staircase was dark, quiet, and Gilbert, who knew exactly which step creaked and which didn’t, slowly tiptoed down until he was at the door to the kitchen behind his shop.

He stood still. The other side of the door was utterly silent. He opened the door and stepped out, lifting the oil lamp to look around the room. 

Nothing moved. Nothing seemed amiss: there were no burglars hiding underneath the cash register; no howling mob with torches and pitchforks demanding chocolate; no axe murderers lurking in the corner. The kitchen was empty.

Except it didn’t  _feel_ empty. And Gilbert,  who knew and trusted in  his gut instinct, waited, barely breathing, for what seemed like minutes. The oil lamp burned lower and lower, until he was standing in all but complete darkness when he finally heard it: a shifting sound, barely there, and a glimpse of movement in the farthest corner.

‘Ah, _hell_.’

He lowered the oil lamp and crouched down to the floor. ‘It’s you, isn’t it? Alright, come on. I ain’t gonna hurt you.’

Silence.

‘It’s alright, I promise.’

More silence and then, ever so slowly, another shadow of movement in the corner until Gilbert was staring into a pair of eyes that glowed huge and yellow in the dim, flickering light. ‘Mreow?’

‘Yeah, I figured. They’re getting hot on your tail, aren’t they?’

Old Rum’s eyes narrowed. Now that his own eyes were getting accustomed to the low light, Gilbert could see the cat more clearly, hunched in on itself and crawled away into the corner, his  sides heaving as if it had been running for miles. Then he remembered the cheering and screaming mob that had thundered past his shop about an hour ago and his face darkened.

‘Alright.’ Gilbert sighed and once again spent an uncharitable thought for the young Lord Colesly. ‘You’re welcome to stay here, if you want. But you’d better come upstairs. I can see some of that lot breaking down the door if they get wind of where you are.’

‘Mreow.’

‘Exactly.’

Gilbert picked up the oil lamp and stood up, noticing for the first time the small gap next to the door that led to the alleyway behind the kitchen. ‘So that’s how you came in. Clever cat, you are.’

Old Rum mreowed again. The sound was followed by the soft but distinctive thumping of a cat bolting upstairs while Gilbert sighed and muttered something darkly under his breath. Then, after making one last round through both the darkened kitchen and the shop itself to make sure everything was as it should be, he turned down the last oil lamp and started plodding upstairs as well.

Unlike his shop, which he kept meticulously organized, his private rooms were a mess. It wasn’t dirty, per se: the table was wiped every day, but there were stacks of papers on the chairs, recipes and orders and invoices all shoved together in a handy pile; he cleaned his plate and fork after dinner but then left them on the counter to dry; he gave his clothes to Ellis the washerwoman once a week, but never bothered to hang them when the floor was right there; and most importantly, the pile of ‘I don’t know what this is but it might come in useful someday’ wedged between his dresser and his bedroom door had almost reached the ceiling by now. 

But there was a small space, right at the bottom of the pile. It hadn’t been put there on purpose; Gilbert didn’t know what had been there, or when he had pulled it out, but it came in pretty convenient at the moment because it was exactly cat-sized.

‘You want dinner?’ Gilbert asked when he had closed the door to the staircase behind him. ‘I got some chicken pie earlier today. Should be enough for two, if one of us isn’t a big eater.’ He grinned in the direction of the gap next to the dresser. ‘Although I am _starving.’_

The silence in the room took on a disapproving edge. And in the small space next to the dresser, two amber colored eyes appeared, narrowed almost to slits.

‘Alright, alright. I’ll save you some. No need to get hissy.’

The amber eyes retreated and the silence grew content again.

‘Although if you could let your owner know,’ Gilbert continued as he took the pie out of the greasy paper and started cutting it into equal pieces, ‘he owes me for this. Perhaps I could charge him a fee. A keep-your-cat-from-being-mauled-by-the-town-mob-fee.’

He put approximately half of the pie on a mostly-clean plate and put it underneath the dresser. There was a rustle, a shifting in the shadows and then the soft, smacking noises of a cat tucking in to a hearty meal. Gilbert sat back on his haunches for a moment, staring into the darkness with a curiously soft expression on his face. ‘Here you go. It’s probably not what you’re used to, but it’s all I got.’

It might have been a trick of the light. Perhaps the oil lamp sputtered, perhaps it was a lucky bit of moonlight. Whatever it was, it caught on something, a flash of gold for a mere fraction of a second and for a moment, Gilbert could have sworn one of those amber eyes looked up and winked at him.


	2. Chapter 2

An hour later, his accounts finished for the night, Gilbert shut the ledger and rubbed his eyes. Doing his sums was never fun, but you couldn’t run a business without it. Not for long, anyway. He stretched out with a heavy groan, let his shoulders roll and his spine pop before he got up and turned around.

Old Rum was sitting in his arm chair.

It wasn’t a nice arm chair: a threadbare thing that once might have been blue or green but was now mostly grey, with balding patches on the arm rests and the seat cushion. But it was comfortable, like most old arm chairs are. Gilbert had been looking forward to sitting there and reading a book just for an hour or so, until it was time to go to bed.

And now the cat was sitting there. In his arm chair. Looking lazily up at Gilbert and clearly having absolutely no intention of moving. At all.

Gilbert quietly contemplated his options for a moment. Then he made a face, decided to hell with dignity and stood up. ‘Alright, your highness. That’s mine. Get out.’

Old Rum blinked. And stayed put.

‘Come on. You’re abusing my hospitality, you know that? What was wrong with the dresser, hm?’

Standing in front of the chair, Gilbert looked down. There was no way in hell he was going to pick Old Rum up; the butcher’s boy’s stitches still hadn’t come out and yesterday, one of Lady Hettie’s maids had gone around the town telling everybody how she’d almost lost an eye. Instead, he moved around the chair, lifting it up and tilting it so that, in theory, the cat would fall to the ground. ‘Out you go now.’

Old Rum growled softly and dug in his claws until the ancient fabric started to rip. Gilbert now held the chair almost horizontal but the cat still held on, like a mountain goat clinging to a steep cliff side.

Gilbert put the chair down and glared. Old Rum glared back.

‘You know, I could just kick you out again. See how comfortable you’d be then.’

The look Old Rum gave him told Gilbert, clear as any spoken word, that he’d have to get him out of the chair first. Gilbert sniggered. ‘Or wait, I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I just put you outside chair and all.’

Old Rum yawned. And then, after one last unimpressed look, graciously slid out of the chair to pad over to a heap of mostly-clean shirts and trousers lying next to Gilbert’s bedroom door. After kneading the heap of fabric with seam-ripping force, Old Rum turned and twisted around this way and that half a dozen times before he finally settled down, yawned again, curled up and closed his eyes.

Gilbert blinked. ‘Thank you.’

He sat down and picked up his book. It was a murder mystery and a very intriguing one at that. Gilbert had spent most of the afternoon going over the plot threads and twists in his head and he thought he had a pretty good idea of who had stabbed Mr. and Mrs. Haywood in the back with an ornamental Russian dagger. Not that he would dare to put money on it, but he had been looking forward to see if his theory was correct all afternoon.

However, as he picked up the book, letting his eyes wander over the sentences and flipping page after page, he found himself not taking in a single word. Instead he caught himself stealing glances towards the pile in the corner, where the large orange cat was fast asleep. It was a peaceful image, far from the usual screaming and hissing that accompanied Old Rum these days. The cat’s sides rose and fell gently with the rhythm of his breathing and his tail and ears twitched every so often, as if he was dreaming; but otherwise, nothing moved and Gilbert sat, quietly contemplating, until almost hypnotized.

He didn’t fail to notice the black ribbon in between the orange fur either. Oh, it would be so easy if he moved quietly enough. He could just stand up and pretend to head for the bedroom, so he would have to pass the cat anyway, and then turn and pounce at the last moment.

He could do it. He could try and make a grab for it. Or, alternatively, he could try and find some more chicken pie. Perhaps that way, he could bribe the cat into letting him come close enough to take the key.

He could. He definitely could. Was probably the only one in the whole entire village who could try and would live to tell the tale.

After a long minute of deep contemplation, Gilbert heaved a heavy breath and let it out in a whoosh, collapsing forward until his face hit his knees. ‘Bloody bloody bloody _bastard_ that he is.’

The curse sounded muffled, but heartfelt all the same. ‘Bloody baron _bastard.’_

 Old Rum looked up, making an irritated noise. Gilbert stared back, his mouth twisting when he noticed the flash of gold in the low light of the oil lamp. ‘Yeah, you heard that right,’ Gilbert sighed. ‘And let me tell you something…’

Before he could start his long overdue rant, however, the peace and quiet despair were interrupted by a heavy thundering on the door below. It sounded like whoever was outside, was very keen to get inside and would not wait much longer before they started breaking down what stood in their way.

‘What the actual bloody…’

The hammering below growing louder and louder, Gilbert jumped and ran downstairs, cat and key and bloody bastard barons all but forgotten. His already fraying temper was not much improved when he opened the door and saw one of Lady Hettie’s footmen. A big one, bigger than Gilbert, with a face that screamed ‘professional thug’ rather than ‘domestic staff’. Despite his height, however, he still took a step back when Gilbert snarled: ‘ _What?’_

 ‘Uhm. One of the lads. He said. The cat’s here?’

Gilbert looked the man up and down. ‘Yeah? What if it is?’

The footman scowled. ‘That’s cheating, that is. And locking him up, ‘s animal abuse. You have to set him free.’

‘Hm.’ Gilbert frowned in thought for a moment. ‘No.’

‘Listen, friend,’ the footman said, puffing himself up to an even more considerable height as he took a step forward, ‘you either put that cat outside, key and all, or Lady Hettie will make sure you never sell another cup of chocolate in this town again.’

Gilbert barked a laugh. ‘Is that right? Well, you can tell Lady Hettie to shove it, and if she wants to pay her outstanding bill while she’s at it, that would be super. Good night.’

He stepped back and shoved the door shut, only to be stopped by the footman’s boot. ‘Oh, not so fast.’

With an unpleasant grin, the footman turned around. Gilbert watched with a sense of mounting dread as he looked to his left and right, took a huge breath and bellowed ‘OVER HERE.’

For a moment, nothing moved. Then, at both ends of the street, one by one, people started to appear, filling the night with movement and noise.

‘OVER HERE,’ the footman roared again. ‘I GOT ‘IM. HE’S IN HERE.’

Faster and faster, more and more people approached until the narrow street was packed. Gilbert, still holding the doorway, couldn’t make out individual faces in the low light but the faces he did see did not look too friendly; and the questions and phrases he could make out in between the indistinct buzzing were more than enough to raise up the hairs in his neck.

‘What’s he say?’

‘Cat’s in there, he says!’

‘ _In_ there? Is that allowed? That’s not allowed, is it?’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Well, get it out!’

‘ _He’s_ got it? _Inside?_ That’s not fair!’

‘That’s cheating!’

‘Never!’

‘Nah, it’s not in there. I bet it’s not in there.’

‘What if it is, then?’

‘Well, _get it out!’_

‘There’s _rules._ You can’t keep it _inside!’_

‘ _Get it out!’_

_‘GET IT OUT!’_

The battle cry found, it resounded through the night air as the throng pressed forward. Gilbert was pushed back, stumbling backwards until he hit the counter inside the store, the mob pouring in after him.

_‘GET IT OUT.’_

The chocolate shop wasn’t large: it had room for about a dozen people at the time, and now at least three dozen were trying to cram their way inside. There was the sound of breaking glass, almost lost in the outrage, as one of the windows was smashed, deliberately or not, no one could tell. Chairs and tables scraped over the floor as they were shoved out of the way none too gently. The breaking glass got an accompaniment of splintering wood and the clatter of crockery.

_‘GET IT OUT!’_

The hard wood of the counter pressing in his side, Gilbert reached behind him until his hand found the smooth handle of the club he kept there. Three feet of ancient solid oak, it had helped him get rid of unsavory looking types on more than one occasion; whether it would help against three or four dozen of them, he could only guess.

‘ _GET IT OUT.’_

‘ _You_ get out,’ Gilbert roared back, swinging the club upwards because that was the only direction it could go. ‘What the hell is _wrong_ with…’ He cut off with an _oomph_ as a massive fist hit him right underneath his ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He doubled over, gasping for air, and the mob pressed forward again with a triumphant roar.

‘ _GET HIM OUT.’_

It was at that moment that Gilbert, still wheezing and his vision blurry from the blow, saw the yellow-orange bloom of torches coming closer down the street and his blood ran cold. He snapped up again, grabbing a renewed hold of his club that he almost lost in the fray and, with a roar born of fear and fury, started swinging away, neither seeing nor caring what or who he hit. He connected hard with something soft to his left; to his right, something snapped with a crack and someone cried out in pain; a figure right in front of him just managed to jump back before the club split his skull and for a second, the tide seemed to turn as people drew back, momentarily taken aback by the whirling dervish in front of them.

Then they remembered that they were many and Gilbert was one, and they started pressing forward again. Gilbert was pushed back a second time. This time he hit a table instead of the counter and toppled over, crashing to the floor. The crowd roared, smelling victory and Gilbert just managed to crawl out of the way before he was trampled by at least a dozen people all heading for the kitchen and the way upstairs while the mob behind them chanted them on.

‘GET HIM OUT. GET HIM OUT. GET HIM OUT.’

The side of Gilbert’s face stung from where it had scraped across the rough wooden floorboards. His side burned with every breath from the blow before and when he tried to get back to his feet, he got an elbow in the shoulder for his trouble. Gilbert tried to shout again but his voice was lost in the all-encompassing noise. He fumbled around for his club but only found stockinged legs and dirty shoes instead. Then he looked up, as a flicker of red-orange light caught his eyes and he saw that the torches had now reached the door.

‘No.’

It wasn’t a shout. It was barely a whisper, hoarse with terror.

‘ _No.’_

He stumbled his way upright, started pushing through the throng with desperate force. ‘ _NO!’_

He barely heard the crowd around him anymore. He barely saw people move out of the way, barely felt the impact of the blows hitting him, barely felt the blows he dealt out himself. He just pushed and pushed and pushed, like a fish trying to swim upstream, until a new voice called out and everything stopped.

‘ _WHAT IN THE BLAZES IS GOING ON IN HERE?_ ’

The roar echoed through the street outside, bouncing off the walls and effectively drowning out the stragglers and torch-bearers that had not managed to make their way inside yet. They fell quiet at once, turning around to gape at the figure who had just appeared.

‘ _Well?’_ the baron, Lord Colesly, demanded, stepping forward into the torchlight. ‘ _Someone_ speak up!’

A hush fell, spreading throughout the street and then, slowly, inside as more and more people turned around. There was a smash, a crash and a faint cheer at the top of the stairs where apparently the door to Gilbert’s rooms was no longer holding people back, but then even there silence fell.

‘Alright,’ his lordship said, almost amicably although his eyes were glittering unpleasantly in the torch light. ‘If no one will tell me, then I’ll just tell _you_ what I see. And what I see is a _riot_ , the destruction of property, the intention to commit arson…’

He glared at one of the torch bearers, a sturdy farmhand of no more than sixteen years old with a face full of spots. The lad squeaked, dropped the torch and fled.

‘… and overall, a _shocking_ lack of discipline or even common sense,’ his lordship finished with a snarl. ‘And all because of the contest I set for you? Well. Let me tell you this.’

He moved through the crowd, which parted in front of him like water in front of a biblical prophet. Dazed though he was, Gilbert somehow still took notice of his lordship’s rather informal dress: his shirt hung three sizes too big around his shoulders and his trousers sat dangerously low, as if it would take one careless step before they would fall down completely. But the silence was absolute now, and the echoes of his lordship’s footsteps on Gilbert’s wooden floor sounded like gunshots.

His shoes, which were also at least two sizes too big. Not that anybody would notice, but Gilbert did, and kept his face carefully blank.

‘Let me tell you this,’ his lordship repeated. He was not shouting anymore, and he didn’t have to; most of the mob had decided now was a good time to make themselves scarce and the only ones left were either too riled up or too stupid to leave. ‘Even if one of you managed to find my cat and get my key, there is no way on earth I would still feel compelled to hold my end of the bargain, to _any_ of you. _Challenge. Over.’_

By now, the mob had dispersed until about half a dozen people, who were left blinking owlishly at his lordship. ‘But…’ one of them managed. ‘But…’

It was the footman, Gilbert saw with a sudden vicious stab of vengeful wrath. Lady Hettie’s footman, who called the mob and punched him in the gut and almost set his shop on fire.

‘My lord,’ he croaked. ‘I believe Big Bill over there has a question.’

‘Does he now,’ his lordship said, turning around. ‘Big Bill, is it? Haven’t I seen you at one of Lady Hettie’s dinner parties?’

Big Bill paled. Big Bill turned around. Big Bill shoved the person standing next to him aside and disappeared into the night.

‘I’ll talk to him tomorrow,’ his lordship said, again in that curiously jovial tone. ‘As for the rest of you: go home, get some sleep and in the morning, I expect each and every one of you back here to help Master Gil clean up his shop. _Is that understood?’_

There was a nodding, a shuffling of feet and a general muttering of ‘Yes, your lordship’. And then, before Gilbert could blink, his shop was empty. He was left standing in the middle of broken tables, upturned chairs and, to the side, a heap of splintered glass that glittered silver in the moonlight. Outside, the last torch which had been dropped in the gutter, fizzled, sputtered, and went out.

Next to him, his lordship cleared his throat. ‘That was close,’ he said, a little too casually. ‘My apologies, Gilbert. I didn’t think…’

Gilbert’s knees had all but given way in the sudden rush of quiet relief. His lordship’s words made him straighten up again, slowly, as renewed righteous fury reared its head. ‘No. You didn’t,’ he said bluntly. ‘Upstairs, my lord. Now. _If you please.’_


End file.
